(Supernatural Fanfiction) Chuck Made Them Do It: Chapter Three

Chuck Made Them Do It: Chapter Three

Rating: Still NC-17
Characters: Sam/Dean
Summary: On the road!

In a matter of minutes Sam and Dean were packed and hauling their bags to the Impala. Dean left Sam to the logistics of cramming their duffel bags and backpacks into the already full trunk (yes, Dean really did need all those weapons, and those magazines did live in the back seat), while the older brother walked to the main building to return their room key. He placed the key on the counter.  The attendant waggled her eyebrows suggestively, glancing out the window toward his bother disappearing into the maw of the trunk, then back to Dean. Dean arched an eyebrow at the attendant, shrugged, and walked back outside.

What the hell was that all about? Were they making too much noise or something?

Dean stopped, mid-step, several feet away from the car. They had made a lot of noise last night, and he knew he was uncomfortably noisy in the shower this morning.  That, and their room was right next to the front desk area.

Oh God, Dean thought. They really could hear us.

He walked the rest of the way to his car, opened the driver side door and got inside.  Sam was waiting for him in the passenger seat, buckled up with a book on his lap, all ready to go. He put on his own seat belt, kissed Sam, and started the engine.

It wasn’t until they were stuck in the turn lane to get on the highway that Dean realized what had happened.

“Son of a bitch!” He cursed.

Sam looked up from his novel. “What? Did you forget something?”

Dean looked Sam square in the eye. “Did I kiss you?”

Sam blinked several times, startled. “What?’

“Did I kiss you?” Dean ground between clenched teeth, “Back at the motel?”

Sam still looked confused, but after a moment a look of horrified recognition settled on his features. “Oh god.  Yeah, you did.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said again.

“You don’t think,” Sam started, his breathing already increasing into panic, “That Chuck is…”

Dean growled, but said nothing. That was all the answer Sam needed.  “Oh God.”

The light finally turned green, and Dean was able to pull the car out onto the entrance ramp of the I-80. At some point, Sam very carefully turned his attention toward his book while Dean continued driving in tense silence.

Could Chuck really retaliate against them like that?

Well, there was this morning in the shower…

Shit, Dean thought. He should have never told Chuck that they were going to kill him.

Luck held on their side, though. They drove for a few peaceful hours without any strange urges coming over either of them.  Dean drove and hummed along to the radio, and Sam read his book and idly stroked his brother’s thigh with his free hand.

It was approximately two hours and twenty-six minutes into the drive that Dean realized Sam’s hand was in his lap.  He stopped humming, mid-chorus to Blue Oyster Cult’s “Burning for You,” to look down at the large hand rubbing lightly on the denim of his jeans.

Cautiously, Dean ventured, “Sam?”

Sam didn’t look up from his book. “Hm?”

“You’re touching my leg.”

Sam nodded absently, then with a start threw his book down and wrenched his hand away. “Jesus!  How long have I been doing that?”

Dean carefully kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t know. I just now noticed it.”

Sam gripped his offending hand by the wrist as if Dean somehow had burnt him.  He was quiet for a moment. Quiet enough Dean risked a glance at him.  Sam was staring at Dean with wide eyes.

“This is just going to keep happening, isn’t it?”

Dean shrugged, slowly. He was suddenly extremely frustrated with himself.  They were on a mission to kill Chuck for putting them into this highly illicit, awkward mess, and yet Dean couldn’t help missing the feeling of his brother’s hand on his thigh.

What was wrong with him?

Instead of dwelling too long on uncomfortable emotions, Dean narrowed his focus to the mission at hand with the precision only a Hunter could muster.  They were going to kill Chuck.  They were going to continue down the I-80 until they hit Pennsylvania and then they were going to turn south onto Hwy 15 and go to Chuck’s house.  Then kill him.  Then maybe eat some lunch.

It was quiet in the car while Dean drove. His constant mantra of ‘kill Chuck, kill Chuck,’ kept all evil, unnecessary thoughts at bay. They were about halfway through the drive when Sam’s voice whispered very, very close to his ear, “Pull over.”

Dean swiveled his head, nearly smacking Sam with his nose. Sam was leaning towards him, so close his breath puffed against Dean’s neck.  Dean glanced back to the road quickly, “Sam, what?”

“I said, ‘Pull over’.”

And Dean did just that.

Sam didn’t wait until the car rolled to a complete stop before he was grabbing Dean’s face and pulling him in for a kiss. It was wet and moist, but Dean was more than a little freaked out to fully enjoy it. He pulled away to make sure the car was in park before rallying on Sam again.

“Just what the hell do you think—.”

Sam was kissing him again before he could finish his question. He pushed his tongue deep into Dean’s mouth, dragging out a moan from the older brother. Dean really couldn’t help himself. With Sam’s hands threaded through his hair and his mouth hot and insistent against his own, he went against his better judgment and kissed back.

The two of them together—it was good. Better than Dean had in a long, long time. Sam was dragging Dean towards him, closer together, mouths still attached. Dean fumbled for his seat belt, unclicked it, and tried to move with him.  He ran one hand up Sam’s side, up to his chest while the other braced against the back of the seat.

Sam pulled away abruptly and gasped out, “Back seat?”

That sounded like a great idea to Dean.

They scrambled out of the car, Dean careful about incoming traffic, flung open the back door of the Impala and crawled inside. Dean barely shut his door before Sam was all over him again.  Magazines crunched under bent knees and hands as Dean gave in to it—gave in to his brother. He let Sam push his jacket off his shoulders and pull his T-shirt up to his neck. While Dean fought to get the rest of the material up over his head, Sam leaned in to mouth at his nipple.  Dean groaned. Sparks of fire spread from both points on his chest as Sam fondled the other nub with a free hand.  Dean’s hand was back in Sam’s hair, encouraging him. He liked having his chest played with, and with no shortage of girls who would deny him anything, he usually got it. But this was different.  Differed because it was Sam and Sam knew, instinctively, how hard and how soft he could go.  Knew just what would drive Dean crazy.  Knew, because it was Sam.

“Sammy,” he moaned, and Sammy came up for air. He nuzzled his way along Dean’s jaw line. Dean slid his hands down Sam’s back until he reached the hemline of his younger brother’s shirt.  When his hands met flesh, Sam groaned softly into the skin of Dean’s neck and arched his back, molding his body against Dean’s. Dean stroked him for a long moment, taking in the sounds and feeling of his brother as he dragged his fingertips across his skin. He relished what he could make Sam do with just his hands.  Sam collapsed against Dean, practically purring from the older man’s petting.

Dean glanced to the floorboards beneath him and his gaze landed on the crunched and wrinkled magazines they had swept from the seat in their scramble to get in the car.  One had fallen open, revealing a centerfold spread of a hot redhead going down on a well-endowed tattooed man.  And Dean had an idea.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered, and he surprised himself by the amount of awe his voice held. He placed one hand back in Sam’s hair again and petted. “Roll over.”

Sam looked at him, mild confusion blinking in his eyes. He muttered an inquisitive noise.

Dean started again. With one hand resting in his brother’s mop of dark hair, the other drifted to his hip and grasped at him.  “I want to… I wanna,” he breathed out, tugging at his brother. “Roll over, Sammy.”

As spacious as the Impala’s backseat was, it was a tight squeeze for two fully grown men to be rolling around. Sam’s elbow caught Dean in the ribs and Dean was pretty sure he accidentally kneed Sam a little too close to the inner thigh for comfort. But they finally flipped themselves to Dean’s liking: Sam spread out on his back, one leg on the floor boards and the other braced on the wall of the car. Dean lay on top of him, supporting most of his bodyweight on his arm wedged between Sam and the seat back.

Sam looked up at Dean with half-lidded eyes smoldering with lust that went straight to Dean’s cock. Groaning deep in his throat, Dean dragged his free hand down Sam’s chest to his stomach. Even through his clothing, Sammy was warm, really warm.  He panted and twitched underneath Dean’s fingertips and Dean wondered when he ever got to see a sight this good in his life.  Sam underneath him, moaning and aching for Dean’s touch, Dean’s mouth. Dean alone—the thought did something to Dean. He sat up from his crouch over Sam and settled between his brother’s knees.

When he reached for the button on Sam’s pants, Sam sat up enough to look questioningly at his brother. “Dean?”

Dean made some nonsensical noise and told Sam to hush. He didn’t want to get interrupted. He undid Sam’s pants and, with Sam’s help, slid the garment—boxers and all—down Sam’s hips until his erection sprang free. Dean took a deep breath and lowered his head.

Sam gasped, “Dean,” and flopped his head against the seat when Dean put his mouth on his cock. It wasn’t a bad taste; certainly not as bad as Dean might have expected. It tasted like salty skin and Sam, and really wasn’t bad at all.  He ran his tongue on the underside of the shaft until he reached the head again, then mouthed it, enclosing the whole tip within the circle of his lips and swirling his tongue around against the trapped flesh. He had to hold down Sam’s hips from bucking into his mouth farther than Dean wanted to go, and from somewhere outside his pinpointed focus of Sam and skin and tongue, he heard Sam crying out—almost chanting—“Dean,” “Oh God,” and “Yes.”

It was hard to smile around a cock in your mouth, so Dean decided to push on instead.  He tried opening his jaw and taking in more of Sam.  Sam quickly hit the back of Dean’s throat, and Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to swallow anymore of his brother past his gag reflex, so he fisted the rest of Sam’s shaft that his mouth couldn’t reach. He worked slowly, carefully, concentrating on keeping his hand in time with his mouth, and bobbed up and down until he had a rhythm. Sam was a series of grunts and moans now, and Dean had to brace his entire free arm against Sam’s stomach to keep him for thrusting too much for Dean to handle.

When Sam’s abdominal muscles began tightening and twitch, Dean sped up his pace.  Sam was close—really close by the rigidity of his shaft. He tongued Sam’s slit, then stroked the vein on the underside of his cock until Sam cried out incoherently one last time, and Dean’s mouth was flooded with heat and salt. He swallowed as much as he could and milked Sam until the twitching and bucking stopped. With one last swipe of the tongue to Sam’s cock, Dean released him from his mouth and crawled back up Sam’s body to collapse on his chest.

Sam buried a hand in Dean’s hair and began stroking Dean’s scalp in a way that quickly made him want a nap. They lay there for a moment while both caught their breaths. It was Sam that silently urged Dean to sit up so he could kiss him, and when their tongues met Sam whimpered at the taste of himself in Dean’s mouth.

They sat back, Dean still on top of Sam and Sam squished into the seat. Sam’s hand was still in Dean’s hair and Dean had an arm looped around Sam’s middle.  Even in the cramped confines of the Impala, Dean realized how comfortable he was, how good pressing against Sam’s side felt, the way it made him feel.

In a really odd way, it kind of felt like home.

Sam kissed him again, slowly, and they lazily moved their mouths together. Dean couldn’t remember ever being kissed like that—usually everything was fast and hard for him—there was no time for drawn out tenderness. But Sam drew it out of him, and Dean let him.

But if there was one thing that Dean had learned was that tenderness didn’t last, so he pulled away.  “We need to get going.”

Sam nodded absently and together they shuffled enough that Dean could get off of Sam and pull up his jeans. Dean crawled to the door and climbed out while Sam fixed his own clothes.  He crawled out of the car only a moment or two after Dean.  They looked at each other over the roof, and an understanding passed between them.

They got back into their respective seats.  Dean turned on the engine.

Interlude over.  Back to the real world.

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Author: Eris O'Reilly

I'm a writer, artist, knitter, crocheter, cat wrangler, zombie hunter, and law enthusiast. Also, I am a complete and utter fangirl. I like silliness.

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